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He
was
anxious
for
the
sake
of
this
friendship
and
perhaps
too
in
order
to
clear
himself
in
his
own
mind
from
the
imputation
of
having
dried
and
shrunk
--
for
Ramsay
lived
in
a
welter
of
children
,
whereas
Bankes
was
childless
and
a
widower
--
he
was
anxious
that
Lily
Briscoe
should
not
disparage
Ramsay
(
a
great
man
in
his
own
way
)
yet
should
understand
how
things
stood
between
them
.
Begun
long
years
ago
,
their
friendship
had
petered
out
on
a
Westmorland
road
,
where
the
hen
spread
her
wings
before
her
chicks
;
after
which
Ramsay
had
married
,
and
their
paths
lying
different
ways
,
there
had
been
,
certainly
for
no
one
's
fault
,
some
tendency
,
when
they
met
,
to
repeat
.
Yes
.
That
was
it
.
He
finished
.
He
turned
from
the
view
.
And
,
turning
to
walk
back
the
other
way
,
up
the
drive
,
Mr.
Bankes
was
alive
to
things
which
would
not
have
struck
him
had
not
those
sandhills
revealed
to
him
the
body
of
his
friendship
lying
with
the
red
on
its
lips
laid
up
in
peat
--
for
instance
,
Cam
,
the
little
girl
,
Ramsay
's
youngest
daughter
.
She
was
picking
Sweet
Alice
on
the
bank
.
She
was
wild
and
fierce
.
She
would
not
"
give
a
flower
to
the
gentleman
"
as
the
nursemaid
told
her
.
No
!
no
!
no
!
she
would
not
!
She
clenched
her
fist
.
She
stamped
.
And
Mr.
Bankes
felt
aged
and
saddened
and
somehow
put
into
the
wrong
by
her
about
his
friendship
.
He
must
have
dried
and
shrunk
.
The
Ramsays
were
not
rich
,
and
it
was
a
wonder
how
they
managed
to
contrive
it
all
.
Eight
children
!
To
feed
eight
children
on
philosophy
!
Here
was
another
of
them
,
Jasper
this
time
,
strolling
past
,
to
have
a
shot
at
a
bird
,
he
said
,
nonchalantly
,
swinging
Lily
's
hand
like
a
pump-handle
as
he
passed
,
which
caused
Mr.
Bankes
to
say
,
bitterly
,
how
SHE
was
a
favourite
.
There
was
education
now
to
be
considered
(
true
,
Mrs.
Ramsay
had
something
of
her
own
perhaps
)
let
alone
the
daily
wear
and
tear
of
shoes
and
stockings
which
those
"
great
fellows
,
"
all
well
grown
,
angular
,
ruthless
youngsters
,
must
require
.
As
for
being
sure
which
was
which
,
or
in
what
order
they
came
,
that
was
beyond
him
.
He
called
them
privately
after
the
Kings
and
Queens
of
England
;
Cam
the
Wicked
,
James
the
Ruthless
,
Andrew
the
Just
,
Prue
the
Fair
--
for
Prue
would
have
beauty
,
he
thought
,
how
could
she
help
it
?
--
and
Andrew
brains
.
While
he
walked
up
the
drive
and
Lily
Briscoe
said
yes
and
no
and
capped
his
comments
(
for
she
was
in
love
with
them
all
,
in
love
with
this
world
)
he
weighed
Ramsay
's
case
,
commiserated
him
,
envied
him
,
as
if
he
had
seen
him
divest
himself
of
all
those
glories
of
isolation
and
austerity
which
crowned
him
in
youth
to
cumber
himself
definitely
with
fluttering
wings
and
clucking
domesticities
.
They
gave
him
something
--
William
Bankes
acknowledged
that
;
it
would
have
been
pleasant
if
Cam
had
stuck
a
flower
in
his
coat
or
clambered
over
his
shoulder
,
as
over
her
father
's
,
to
look
at
a
picture
of
Vesuvius
in
eruption
;
but
they
had
also
,
his
old
friends
could
not
but
feel
,
destroyed
something
.
What
would
a
stranger
think
now
?
What
did
this
Lily
Briscoe
think
?
Could
one
help
noticing
that
habits
grew
on
him
?
eccentricities
,
weaknesses
perhaps
?
It
was
astonishing
that
a
man
of
his
intellect
could
stoop
so
low
as
he
did
--
but
that
was
too
harsh
a
phrase
--
could
depend
so
much
as
he
did
upon
people
's
praise
.
"
Oh
,
but
,
"
said
Lily
,
"
think
of
his
work
!
"
Whenever
she
"
thought
of
his
work
"
she
always
saw
clearly
before
her
a
large
kitchen
table
.
It
was
Andrew
's
doing
.
She
asked
him
what
his
father
's
books
were
about
.
"
Subject
and
object
and
the
nature
of
reality
,
"
Andrew
had
said
.
And
when
she
said
Heavens
,
she
had
no
notion
what
that
meant
.
"
Think
of
a
kitchen
table
then
,
"
he
told
her
,
"
when
you
're
not
there
.
"
So
now
she
always
saw
,
when
she
thought
of
Mr.
Ramsay
's
work
,
a
scrubbed
kitchen
table
.
It
lodged
now
in
the
fork
of
a
pear
tree
,
for
they
had
reached
the
orchard
.
And
with
a
painful
effort
of
concentration
,
she
focused
her
mind
,
not
upon
the
silver-bossed
bark
of
the
tree
,
or
upon
its
fish-shaped
leaves
,
but
upon
a
phantom
kitchen
table
,
one
of
those
scrubbed
board
tables
,
grained
and
knotted
,
whose
virtue
seems
to
have
been
laid
bare
by
years
of
muscular
integrity
,
which
stuck
there
,
its
four
legs
in
air
.
Naturally
,
if
one
's
days
were
passed
in
this
seeing
of
angular
essences
,
this
reducing
of
lovely
evenings
,
with
all
their
flamingo
clouds
and
blue
and
silver
to
a
white
deal
four-legged
table
(
and
it
was
a
mark
of
the
finest
minds
to
do
so
)
,
naturally
one
could
not
be
judged
like
an
ordinary
person
.
Mr.
Bankes
liked
her
for
bidding
him
"
think
of
his
work
.
"
He
had
thought
of
it
,
often
and
often
.
Times
without
number
,
he
had
said
,
"
Ramsay
is
one
of
those
men
who
do
their
best
work
before
they
are
forty
.
"
He
had
made
a
definite
contribution
to
philosophy
in
one
little
book
when
he
was
only
five
and
twenty
;
what
came
after
was
more
or
less
amplification
,
repetition
.
But
the
number
of
men
who
make
a
definite
contribution
to
anything
whatsoever
is
very
small
,
he
said
,
pausing
by
the
pear
tree
,
well
brushed
,
scrupulously
exact
,
exquisitely
judicial
.
Suddenly
,
as
if
the
movement
of
his
hand
had
released
it
,
the
load
of
her
accumulated
impressions
of
him
tilted
up
,
and
down
poured
in
a
ponderous
avalanche
all
she
felt
about
him
.
That
was
one
sensation
.
Then
up
rose
in
a
fume
the
essence
of
his
being
.
That
was
another
.
She
felt
herself
transfixed
by
the
intensity
of
her
perception
;
it
was
his
severity
;
his
goodness
.
